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Eleanor Roosevelt Was a Badass

I’ve always admired Eleanor Roosevelt. She defied the society of her day and forged a new path for women. She was a tireless fighter for the disadvantaged. During WWII, she traveled to the front to visit the troops, despite the danger. She was an early fighter for civil rights. One of her most famous quotes was to do something every day that scares you.

The older she got, the more badass she became.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/ede2_tuZJp8

In the 1950s, when she was in her late 60s and early 70s, she insisted on driving around the country to promote her various causes. The Secret Service freaked. A former First Lady was a tempting target, especially given her support of civil rights. That made driving around the South particularly perilous.

As a compromise, she agreed to pack a pistol.

I remember learning about that during a visit to the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum in Hyde Park, N.Y. But I had forgotten about it until Slate published a picture of her firearms license.

She didn’t let danger stop her, and she certainly didn’t let her age or sex stop her.

Have a look, and be inspired.

Eleanor Roosevelt's pistol license

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The Misguided Coping Tool of My Teenage Rage

The first car I ever owned as a kid was a beat-to-shit 1983 Ford LTD wagon. It had a catalytic converter that always flooded and stalled the car. The power steering was gone. And it was the misguided coping tool of my teenage rage.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/biXnwOMznkg

The LTD’s exterior was a toxic green, covered over in patches with stickers promoting whatever anarchist political causes I espoused at the time. In one inspired move, I took a “No Sludge” bumper sticker that had been proliferated by groups opposed to a sludge burning plant at the Rowe Quarry, cut off the no part and stuck sludge to the rear hatch. (The no-sludge people ultimately won. A massive condo complex sits where Rowe used to be on the Revere-Saugus border in Massachusetts.)

Some days I loved that car. Some days I hated it.

I hated the constant stalling and the smell of gas and oil that always seemed to make its way into the passenger compartment. The steering wheel was thin, which wasn’t masculine enough for my liking. Loose metal around the rear passenger-side wheel well constantly sliced the tires, though that at least gave me plenty of tire-changing practice.

But I loved its battered exterior and the sound system. The speakers were actually blown out, but I liked how it made the bass rattle the car whenever I put an Ozzy cassette in. I loved how I could pack a bunch of friends in the back for trips to the Worcester Centrum, the main place to see the big rock acts before we had the TD Garden and Verizon Center.

I was always told the back was perfect for sex, though I never attempted it. At least two friends did. If I wasn’t in the car at the time, I didn’t care, as long as they cleaned up after themselves.

Despite the engine’s shortcomings, I broke a lot of speed limits with that car. I had a vicious temper and often drove too fast to feel better. I used to blast up and down the causeway between Lynn and Nahant. You had to slow down before reaching Nahant, though, because the police loved to bust kids like me. They often did.

I would drive within an inch of the car in front of me and bang the horn. I would flip off anyone who slowed me down. And I punched the ceiling over the driver’s seat so much the fabric started to sag.

Looking back, I could have killed someone. There were many opportunities to do so. I could have killed myself and my friends in those moments of road rage. By the grace of God, that never happened.

The coping tools I have today — music, my guitars, walks with my wife, the elliptical machine in the garage, my faith, my mindfulness exercises — are far more effective. Nobody gets hurt. Everyone wins, because I’m easier to deal with.

Still, there are occasions, however infrequent, when I miss that wreck on four wheels.

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Knowing You’re a Punk is the First Step in the Cure

I was an absolute punk this morning. I was incensed over tech problems, dropping F-bombs and punching the desk with my fist.

Mood music:

It’s a typical problem for someone with clinical OCD. You want to control everything, though you know it’s impossible.

In mid-rage, I learned a friend had just lost a sibling.

Rage turned to guilt.

I’m no special case. We all lose our patience from time to time and act like spoiled brats. More often than not, it’s over little things, like missing a favorite TV show or getting stuck in traffic. It’s much easier to blow up than to be stoic when things don’t go our way.

The news I received this morning in the middle of my tantrum just goes to show that someone else always has it worse. I know what it’s like to lose a sibling, and I truly feel for my friend and pray for his family. I needed a hard slap of perspective this morning, but I wish the lesson came from someplace else.

Appreciate what you have. Hug those around you, and don’t sweat the little things. If you fail at any of these, just try again.

I’ll work at following my own advice.

Perspective-is-everything

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EddieTheYeti: Art as Mental Therapy

I sucked at a lot of things as a kid, but I could draw. It was the one thing that always got me compliments from people who otherwise ridiculed me.

Those drawings were an exercise in emotion. There were pictures of my favorite rock stars, recreated scenes from my favorite movies (particularly the violent ones) and doodles that captured my frustration during school and periods of depression. A good example of that is the Paul Revere Owl of Rage I wrote about a while back.

Writing eventually replaced drawing, though I’ve maintained a life-long appreciation for art that captures emotion. Which brings me to Eddie Mize, also known as EddieTheYeti.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/xQvuZvrH0Yw

Eddie is a master at capturing the human element. His latest works, “Faces of Defcon,” are a prime example. He made these images from ink, lime juice, soy sauce, wine, coffee, tea, pencil, acrylic, and water. I know many of the people he captures. They are hackers and other security practitioners who have a burning intensity for their profession. They throw their souls into the work, and you can see it in their eyes.

Eddie has done a lot of rock ‘n’ roll artwork as well, and you can see the influence in his security professionals work.

Much has been written about Eddie’s history with bipolar disorder and depression. He’s been an outspoken advocate for art as a powerful mental health tool.

In a 2010 article on the Mood Letter website, he explains:

My acrylic work is usually the result of mania; the digital darker art is usually created during my depressive phases. People who know me know how I’m doing by the qualities in the work.

Music, art and writing have been critical tools in my own effort to manage mental health, and I appreciate the hell out of people who share their work publicly, where it can then help other people climb out of whatever mental holes they’ve fallen into.

Thanks for all you do, Eddie.

Unibomber by EddieTheYeti

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The Semicolon As Anti-Suicide Symbol

I’ve never been a fan of the semicolon. I always identify it as punctuation used by people clinically incapable of writing the short, crisp sentences I prefer. Who knew it would become a symbol of hope — a battle cry to resist suicidal thoughts and get on with life.

Mood music:

That’s the mission of The Semicolon Project: to turn a piece of punctuation into something new and powerful. A Tumblr blog explains:

The semicolon is used when a sentence could have ended, but didn’t. The movement is for anyone who has ever self-harmed, has a personality disorder, or has tried to commit suicide. The semicolon is a sign of hope. Your sentence is not over yet. If you have ever harmed yourself, attempted suicide, or just want to support the cause, put a semicolon on your wrist or wherever you feel would mean the most. Every time you see it, think of something that makes life worth living.

The movement appears to be catching on, with people even getting the punctuation mark tattooed to wrists and other body parts.

I believe in symbols. They are no replacement for therapy and, as needed, medication. But symbols do something just as important, if not more so: They give the suffer something positive to fixate on, shapes that are as powerful as entire sentences and songs. When life kicks you in the nuts, the right symbolic image seared into the brain can steer you back toward the will to live.

For myself, the Superman S has always been a powerful symbol. The image has surfaced in my mind’s eye whenever I’ve reached low points and realized it was time for a turnaround. I love how, in last year’s Man of Steel movie, Jor-El specifically describes it as the symbol of hope.

But as symbols go, this semicolon idea is growing on me. And I only heard about it a couple days ago.

So here it is, the image to picture when you are at your lowest. May it inspire you to keep your sentence moving.

semi-colon